Blue Eyed Boy
by we were here
Summary: Tim Shepard reflects on Dallas Winston's death.


Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders; E. E. Cummings owns "Buffalo Bill's"

A/N: This isn't really anything special, just wrote it in a couple days & finally finished editing it. Haven't been able to write anything in a while because of school & just life in general, but I'm excited that I finally got this posted. Don't think this is my best work, but I tried. :)

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**Blue Eyed Boy**

**one| a.**

The cigarette rolls awkwardly between his fingers as he takes a drag, puffing out a few smoke rings before handing the cigarette-or at least what's left of it-to Sylvia nonchalantly, no words spoken after the exchange simply because they aren't needed.

Tim takes a quick glance out of the corner of his eye at her, watching a pair of puckered lips clutch the cigarette. The blinking lights from the sign that hangs above the door at Buck's glow across her face in an aura of neon, highlighting a pair of bloodshot eyes that haven't closed in more than twenty-four hours. Her face is caked with dry tears, shimmering like fucking crystals against the black canvas of the night sky that has enveloped his soul for too long.

Tim wonders what he looks like right now, if he looks as distraught as she does, or if he looks calm-a trait he's possessed since he was nine-eyes fucking off the rest of the world. Or maybe he's broken too-all together on the outside but inside he's really not, shattered into pieces because he finally decided to give up. Or maybe he possesses the look of triumph, the infamous smirk that's crossed his face more times than he could count, present as day.

Is that why people pity him, because they can see past the lies and Tim can't, the eyes of society looking past the shield of pride to decipher the person he wishes no one-not even himself-would ever see?

It's a long shot to think of something like that, but he believes it anyway because he's drunk, and there's nothing else to do besides go ahead back inside, and pour more whiskey down his throat.

Sylvia passes him back the cigarette with a sniff, and Tim shoves it between his lips, the familiar sense of reality washing back to him in a wave, almost making him sick. It scares him-the way his thoughts seem to swallow him, because when the sun goes down and darkness sets in, it's only a short amount of time before he's beginning to suffocate in his own thoughts. But he's too far gone to even realize that it's happening.

Tim's glare dances up to the railing of the porch. The white paint that has been there ever since he could remember is now chipping away, flakes of dry paste sprinkling the air that smells heavily of booze and cigarettes.

He hears a car engine start up from across the lot, and he averts his gaze to the front lawn, almost vacant besides the car he stole the other weekend and a few others belonging to his outfit along with the Kings, and he vaguely wonders how the broads that are occupying the pool table inside got over here. The bar is pretty much deserted for a Friday night, reeking of death and betrayal…or is that just him?

Tim exhales a puff of smoke into the cold air, grabbing a fistful of curls. He can't remember the last time he took a shower. All he can remember is the night of the rumble: he came home at around two in the morning, swaying drunkenly through the front door and up to his room where he collapsed on his bed next to Curly, clutching his broken nose as he shoved his face into the mattress, trying to make it stop bleeding.

Then, after how many goddamn hours he fell asleep, Tim awoke to the sounds of Angel sobbing, shaking his shoulders and pounding on his back to wake him up. He'd popped an eye open and yelled at her to leave him alone, and she recoiled, but her mouth didn't stop, seven words cutting through the air like a knife.

"_He's dead, Tim. Dallas is fucking dead."_

His head had pounded for the rest of that day, well into the night as he'd stumbled his way over to Buck's. After a few drinks and some congratulatory slaps on the back, Tim had staggered his way upstairs into an open bedroom and fallen asleep to the sound of Hank Williams pounding through the paper thin walls.

Sylvia opens her mouth, turning her head towards Tim so that he could see the faint trickle of tears making their way down her cheeks. It's not like he gave a fuck. Sure, they screwed around a few times when-he forced himself to think of the name-Dallas was in the cooler, but it wasn't anything serious.

He cocks an eyebrow and takes another drag and she stiffens, returning her blank gaze back down towards the concrete.

"I can't believe he's gone." Her words come out muffled, hidden behind a sob that is ready to escalate into a full-on breakdown.

Tim's been avoiding it all day; the piercing fire of grief that has hollowed him out until he's just a pile of ashes, a broken mind staggering his way through the city of denial. It begins as just a game, a game of forgetting so he won't be able to feel. His vision swirls and his blood runs cold, fists gripping nothing but empty air as nails dig into palms covered with scars. His stomach tightens with the familiar feeling of isolation and Tim wants to vomit, although he hasn't eaten anything solid in days. Or weeks-hell, maybe even a month-but he can't remember. Tim's just been chugging beer after beer, inhaling a few packs of cancer sticks every now and then until he's depending on them to keep him alive; the unavoidable crave of not being in control over his own goddamn demons ravishing him until he's lost all self-control. But it's not like he ever had any.

He remembers the little fucker, the little fucker who took Dallas away forever, ripped him up from his life. What was his name? Jack…Joseph…John-Johnny. Little Johnny Cade with big black eyes that reflected off the rest of the world, black holes full of fear. Long bangs swept over his eyes, hair lathered in grease. He was short; scars littering his dark skin from head to toe, thanks to an abusive father and ignorant mother from what Dallas told him. He always carried a six inch blade-if Tim could remember right-ever since those Socs beat the shit outta him a few months back. Of course Tim had talked to the kid a few times, said "hey" every once in a while, but the kid was always quiet and usually responded with a timid "hi", lost in his own little bubble.

He felt pity for the kid, yet what greaser didn't pity the other?

It doesn't matter, anyway-his reflection in the cracked mirror of the room Tim's hauled his ass up in for the last few nights makes up for it. The anticipation nearly radiates off of his skin, and he takes in each sharp breath cautiously, as if the air is contagious-like it can kill. A mess of black curls fall over dark orbs swirling with blue, frozen behind a mask that Tim only knows too well. Nose is angular and cheek bones are high, colored black and blue, a long scar traveling its way from his temple to his jaw, sticking out against pale skin illuminated by colors that are too bright for his blurred vision, a frown appearing across chapped lips.

And now the image he's built up for so long is now crumbling beneath Tim's very feet, the façade shattering to reveal a dead corpse with a beating heart. During the nights he's spent in bed lying awake as his gaze burns holes into the ceiling, darkness has become his only friend other than the bottle that's been attached to his lips almost constantly, soothing him with the bitterness only it can bring.

But when light breaks through slanted blinds, illuminating shadows that have danced across the walls, muffling out Hank Williams that swallows the air with lyrics Tim doesn't bother to pay any attention to, it reveals the monster that he really is, the monster that is scared of its own fucking reflection, too damn petrified to do anything about it because that's what Tim is and no matter how many times he wants to fucking change you just can't.

But whoever said that he liked change?

Maybe that's why Tim escaped outside, now forcing himself to shove away the pain and take it like a man-the man he isn't and never will be no matter how many fights he gets into, no matter how many miles long his record is down at the station.

Tim will always be Tim-the coward who hides behind a reputation that has taken a life on its own; the jackass that has forced too many people to follow in his footsteps because being a leader makes Tim feel like he's in control for once. He has the power to conquer whatever wherever because he just can and that's the way things are around here.

And he abuses it like a fucking drug; sucking it in until his head spins and he practically explodes from the adrenaline rush that lifts him higher and higher upon the pedestal he's put himself on, watching as the world melts away underneath his wrath, because isn't it just ironic how much he hates himself right now?

Throwing the cigarette on the ground, Tim grinds it out with the toe of his boot before getting up from the porch steps. Taking a deep breath to shove a sob back down his throat, he balances himself on the porch railing, large hands clutching on pine wood as he walks up the few steps that lead inside.

Sylvia is still sitting on the porch, but Tim's already headed inside, the screen door slamming behind him. Walking over to the bar, he sits down at an empty stool in the corner, resting his forehead against the cold Formica countertop to block anyone from seeing a single tear roll its way down his cheek.

Fuck Dallas Winston.

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he was a handsome man  
and what i want to know is  
how do you like your blueeyed boy  
Mister Death


End file.
